


Addictive Poison

by thezestycadenski



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Awkward Romance, Eventual Romance, M/M, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:51:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2708003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thezestycadenski/pseuds/thezestycadenski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, it's your typical sniper/spy deal.<br/>With a lot of fist fights, for some reason. Which is always a fun time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Death, Two Threats

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to use the names from the comics in all honesty, so comic names are abound. Also. This is my first TF2 fic, hopefully it won’t be too bad. I’m still trying to pick up most of the characteristics/habits of the characters and all. So y’know. Bear with me here.  
> This was inspired by (not really but this song fits, I feel); High by Peking Duk ft Nicole Millar  
> Yes, I am one of THOSE people.  
> Also, I do not speak French in the slightest (aside from knowing how to say Hello and My name is...) so if there are any errors in the French, blame Google Translate and please tell me  
> Good reading to you!

It always started the same way.

Load up, move out to your entry points, and wait for the Administrator to announce game time.

Then the killing would begin, and as always; they were merciless.

They _were_ mercenaries after all. That’s what they were paid to do.

Not that it didn’t make some situations terribly uncomfortable.

BLU Spy was stuffed up against a wall, cloak on, and having the life squished out of him by the enemy Heavy leaning on him, eating a Sandvich. He could barely flick his butterfly knife out but managed it, uncloaked and stabbed RED Heavy in the back.

“‘Eavy brute,” He spat out, as the Heavy disappeared into oblivion with a yell and a huge blood spatter. Spy shielded his eyes from the sight. “ _Trop de sang._ ” He muttered, cloaking himself yet again and fiddling with the handle of his trusty balisong. He stalked out into the sunshine, observing the grounds and listening intently for any volume change in the rhythmic patterns of yells and gunfire.

He was listening so hard he didn’t register when his cloaking faded. There was a whisper on the wind though, the familiar whistle of high velocity metal hurling itself towards him, he barely heard it, but he did all the same, and somersaulted backwards, hissing as he felt the bullet skim his left shin.

“Sniper,” He growled as he landed on his hands and sprang himself up into the air, cloaking himself as it recharged almost instantly -- he was grateful that the Administrator had allowed it -- and landing swiftly, his feet moving with the silence of a falling feather, darting into the shadows of a still train.

He watched as a tiny white smoke trail wafted on the light breeze in front of the empty water tower, and felt a predatory smile curve on his lips. That Australian cur wouldn’t win this one.

~~

RED Sniper cursed quietly to himself as Spy leapt backwards a split second before his shot hit its mark, skimming the enemy’s left shin. “Bugger,” He groaned. It was sweltering in the water tower, he’d already stripped down to his ancient worn wife beater and rolled up the edges of his light brown bush trousers, wiping the sweat from his brow with an old handkerchief.

He propped a foot up against the edge of the hole, sighting down the scope yet again, mumbling to himself angrily as he searched for the now elusive Spy.

“Come out, ya little French wanker,” He muttered under his breath, only a second too late to catch the whiff of cigarette smoke -- cloying, with a hint of mint -- on the breeze and only just stopping himself from swallowing as he felt the well-known, razor sharp steel knife against his throat.

“I _am_ out, Sniper.” Spy purred. Sniper felt his throat constrict further, not from fear -- he knew he’d just end up at the respawn point when Spy killed him -- but from surprise. He wasn't dead yet,  and both he and Spy were renowned for killing on the spot, without remorse or hesitation, being that they were seemingly the least emotional out of their teams.

"Why ain't ya slit my throat yet?" He asked, his voice strangled from how every muscle in his body tensed with pure adrenaline. The classic flight-or-fight response firing him up so much that his fingers twitched on the trigger of the rifle still in his hands, loosing off the single shot his rifle stored. Spy smirked beneath his mask and, using his surprising agility, grabbed the man's left arm with his right hand, bending and hoisting him up, rolling him over his back and twisting himself, pinning the Australian down on his back by straddling his stomach.

"You will pay for ruining my suit," Spy's accent became heavier than normal, drawing out the r and stabbing the t into place with fine precision as he took out his revolver and aimed it at the Sniper's forehead. "And, for being so unprofessional as to skim my leg." He added with a tut, stabbing the knife into Sniper's right hand, with enough accuracy that he managed to ease it between the middle and ring finger bones, drawing a startled cry of pain from the Sniper.

This wasn't normal.

Sure, they killed. But usually it was clean, fast and there was never a scuffle of any kind. Landing back at the respawn point and being left with some ghost pain wasn't bad but being tortured to death? The Sniper drew a shaky breath, stared Spy in the eyes and spit at him, baring his teeth.

"Just bloody well do your job!" He hissed between his clenched teeth.  "The Administrator won't be happy with you," he warned and with a snarl of disgust Spy thrust the knife into his chest. A brief flash of pain, the scripted scream and back to Respawn he went.

~~

Spy lounged in the Sniper’s nest for awhile, taking a singular moment of self indulgence -- he told himself it was to gather more intel on the enemy -- and toyed with the remains of the Sniper’s things, studiously avoiding the jars of urine perched on a makeshift shelf.

“Hmm,” He raised his eyebrow upon finding a blue-book, not necessarily a rarity but in the mercenary line of work it was almost a life-destroying ordeal if one of the others found a personal item such as this one. He chuckled to himself, crouching on the floor. The heat didn’t bother him, and as he kicked his legs back and settled in for the wait, he picked up the blue-book, flipping through the pages leisurely. It was not usual for him to do this, wait for an enemy to reappear, much less browse through the raunchy pages of something as impersonal as a blue-book belonging to an enemy but he felt as though a change of pace would do for once. The lewd drawings offered him no arousal, though he let his mind wander while on the subject, still keeping a portion of his attention on the trapdoor. It wasn’t all that long before the trapdoor was being opened cautiously by the Sniper, who swore in apparent shock.

“‘ello, _vieil ami_.” Spy sneered, placing the book back in its space with minute precision.

“What’re you still doin’ here, ya mongrel. _And_ reading my blue-book?” The Australian said, glaring as he stepped into the heat of the metal container. Spy tilted his head slightly, the only body language he would give.

“I believe, we did not ‘ave a fair match.” Sniper scoffed. “Re-match?” Spy suggested before taking a swing, butterfly knife arcing to slash at Sniper’s face, it made contact and cut into his cheek. Sniper swore and raised his hand to his face before stepping back, using his other hand to draw his kukri and stabbed forward, feigning at the last moment as Spy leaned forward, the Sniper grabbed his arm and whirled him around, slamming him against the metal shell. Spy crumpled forward, on his hands and knees, wheezing, and Sniper grabbed him by the shoulders, flipping him over and straddling him. The exact same way Spy had been straddling him earlier.

“Do it,” Spy hissed, eyes blazing with blatant fury at being outsmarted. “Kill me.”

Sniper used his knees to hold down Spy’s arms, scratching at the rough stubble shadowing his chin.

“Don’t think I will,” He said offhandedly. “May just lock you up here,” Through the aviators shielding his eyes, Spy could vaguely see a mocking look in his eyes. “Leave you to starve,” He bared his teeth in a grin and Spy turned his head away, eyes squeezing shut.

“Spare me,” He said softly. “I may not harm you again… Today.”

Sniper chuckled. “It’s almost sundown, ya sneaky prick. You can’t fool me.”

Spy growled, eyes still shut. “Then leave!” He spat, eyes flying open. “Leave me to rot!” He wasn’t struggling, and this was far more intimate than he could have ever guessed, even if they were bargaining for his life. His eyes were burning into Sniper’s and he could feel his cheeks heat up underneath his mask. He was glad that he wore it all the time, but he knew that his eyes were giving away more than he wanted to. He could read that Sniper was now genuinely concerned, as concerned as he could be for an enemy -- which wasn’t much at all.

“Listen,” Sniper said after a few moments of silence, cocking his head. “It’s all quiet down below…” He trailed off, standing, almost as if in a daze and peering out of the man-made slit in the metal shell. Spy got up, cursing in French in his head, and massaging his wrists. He considered making another kill out of him but the Sniper turned to him. “It’s sundown, we’re off for the night.”

Spy scowled and left the thought of making one final sweet kill alone, turning and making his way to the trapdoor. If it wasn’t for the leaderboard or for money; there was no point.

But this was the first time he’d gone off duty with another person around, with an enemy around. He felt as though he should say something, but Sniper beat him to it.

“Night, Spook. See ya in the morn, for some good killin’.” He muttered as he made his way past Spy and down the hatch, rifle rattling as he descended the ladder. The crunching of gravel faded in the distance as Spy stood still, lost in thought at the edge of the open hatch, wondering how this would seem in the morning.

It would probably look like a bad dream.

 


	2. It Never Pays To Feel

“AGGHHHHHHHHHH!” Heavy’s scream made Spy cringe inwardly behind his mask, gritting his teeth as it echoed around the Respawn room.

“Must you be so loud, ‘Eavy?” He said to the Russian beside him, taking out his cigarette case absentmindedly and popping a slim, hand-made roll up into his mouth. The man eyed him for a moment.

“Es what I do to… how to say word... One for excitement-making. To make nerves on fire.” He rumbled in response, lovingly patting one of the barrels of his Sascha.

“To ‘ype yourself up?” Spy suggested, lighting his cigarette and taking a long drag, feeling the nerve endings in his fingers already prickling.

“Da. This is the word.”

“Ah,” Spy blew the stream of smoke out through his nose, and watched as the two thin wisps of smoke floated upwards, twining and dancing through the light wafts of breeze before being sucked into the buildings ventilation system abruptly. “Then, I suppose, it is alright. But not in my ears next time, _s'il vous plaît_?”

The big man nodded solemnly, a slow grin tugging at the corners of his eyes.

_The game begins in ten seconds._ The Administrator’s voice sounded coldly through the loudspeakers planted around the containment area. Spy wondered what other devices were planted elsewhere.

He stood, nodding at the Russian briefly, bringing himself up onto the tips of toes, stretching his arms above his head before cracking his knuckles.

The sounds were like rapid fire shots, and he noticed most the team flinch in response. With a feral smile beneath his balaclava, he stubbed out his cigarette on the smart-plastic of the wall, the burn mark quickly being sealed over and the plastic fusing itself back together.

For the most part, he had no idea about the electronics of the place where they fought, specifically the technology of the Respawn itself -- how they never actually died -- and the building that housed it. It was all the Administrator’s doing and he chose not to question how they worked.

He just hoped they never failed.

~~

Sniper watched with fair amusement through the crosshairs of his scope as the Scout from his team danced circles around the rapid fire beat of BLU Heavy’s minigun. The big bear of a man was yelling in frustration, wasting a multitude of bullets as the Scout took little jabs at him as he ran, first in a circle, then in serpentine, then figure eights and back to circles. The Heavy -- an apt name, for though he looked fat, Sniper knew it was all muscle -- seemed to groan in anger, before screaming an ear shattering “Medic!” causing RED Scout to leap away into the canal, allowing Sniper to aim carefully.

_Crack._

Headshot. Crit hit.

And the Heavy went down with a brief yell and a gorey amount of blood spurting from his brain before the body was left, rolling uselessly like an empty shell washed up by the incoming tide.

Sniper was tempted to get down from his comfy roost up in the highest rafters of the barn to drag the body out of sight so the Medic would stumble upon a barren nothingness and he could get another kill in before the timer sounded but he didn’t, merely taking a sip of coffee and observing the rest of the grounds through his scope.

Strange -- he thought to himself -- how the bodies left behind were them, but whenever they respawned they were gone.

Like now, he was watching the BLU Heavy edge out off the base with heavy footfalls and the slowest pace he’d ever seen a man walk, but when he turned his view back to the mess of gore and blood, it was gone.

He was never quite sure how they managed it, but then. He wasn’t paid to wonder about that. He was paid to kill. Even if it did seem an endless, futile task.

There was another target. A flash of a deep blue pinstripe suit at the edge of vision, darting across a gap between two buildings. Sniper growled, trying to guess where the sneaky Frenchman would be next, aiming at the entrance of an abandoned building.

He waited, and waited, and waited.

But there was no sign of the BLU Spy.

He would occasionally shift his view across the rest of the grounds, out of caution and reflexes, but found no other people, BLU or RED.

It became distinctly quiet. The kind of silence Sniper was not as used to as he was with the Outback silences, stalking some dangerous animal -- or human, the silence alive with the sounds of millions of insects and animals alike, all struggling to find food, or to find a mate, or to live.

This silence had an echoing emptiness to it, one that the marksman felt the need to fill with thoughts.

Sniper considered his life much of the same as those animals in the Outback. Though he never truly lacked nourishment, he ate the bare minimum of food in order to survive. It kept his senses on high alert, and he wouldn’t allow himself the luxury of getting fat and slow, not when he was on the edge of not-death every day. The ‘finding a mate’ thing was difficult, though. What decent, sensible-if-loose lady wanted to spend more than perhaps a single night with a beaten up, grizzled, unsociable, bushman? Not that he’d had many nights like that of late. Most of the woman at the town nearest to Teufort were butt ugly or old as sin anyway, and he rarely went there, unless he needed supplies.

He was better off alone. Though he wondered if going against such a natural human instinct for so long was a good thing.

He realised, through his silent musings, that he wasn’t alone.

The hairs on his arms stood to attention, his skin shivering at the unexplained presence near him.

The cloying, mintish smoke wafted through the air, hitting his nostrils like an assault of its own and he whipped around, glaring into the gloom.

“Where are ya, filthy Spook?” He rasped, his voice unnaturally hoarse after sitting in silence for the past six hours.

“Over here,” Spy’s voice sounded to his left, indifferent to the insult, calm and controlled, it was unnerving to say the least. Sniper stood, balancing on the thick beam, making sure to keep his distance. He couldn’t see well into the permanent murkiness that pervaded the rafters, even with the slot fruitlessly trying to pierce it with a meagre amount of light. In fact, he realised, it made him more visible. An easier target.

He shifted in place on the beam, bouncing his weight from one foot to the other in nervousness, all senses straining to pinpoint where the enemy was. “Whaddya want?” He snapped.

There was a flicker of light, a flame, to his right and a brief spark of a cigarette flaring before dulling to a low orange glow. The smoke drifted towards him again.  
“Only to say...” A pause, then the slightest hiss and a heavy clatter of shoes on wood, and the Sniper was thrown backwards into nothingness, gripping onto the thin body that had pushed him. _But why?_ His answer was a deafening boom as his nest and subsequently the place he was standing were engulfed in spouts of fire and debris.

Faintly, through the ringing in his ears, Sniper heard Solider’s cheerful booming voice call out “VICTORY!” before he slammed into the ground, all wind shooting out of lungs at once, leaving him gasping for air and flailing, his head exploding with pain.

“Sniper!” Spy’s face was above him, his yelling barely sounding through the immense pain that bloomed through Sniper’s body. “Get up!” Sniper waved him away as Spy clutched at his vest, beginning to hoist him to his feet.

“Kill me,” Talking was hard, his tongue lolling around his mouth, feeling too thick and hot to use properly. Blood filled his mouth; salty, acidic. His voice sounded strange in his head, disjointed and cracked, helpless. The pain was overwhelming. “Just,” He struggled to take a breath through the agony in his lungs. He must have broken ribs, definitely more than one. “Do it.” He gurgled, fumbling with the Spy’s hands at his vest and loosening his fingers, letting himself flop back onto the ground with a drawn-out groan, voice filled with blood and spit.

~~

Spy gave the marksman a tortured look, despite warning himself to distance himself from the compromising situation immediately. To end such a broken man’s life was a pity kill, not one that Spy had done many times in the past. That kind of kill was too full of emotion for his taste. But he did as his enemy asked, against his better judgement, pulling out his revolver and pressing it against the Australian’s bloody forehead.

“ _Au revoir_.” He whispered, never letting his eyes drop from the Sniper’s face as he pulled the trigger.

Turning away from a kill was a coward’s act.

And he was no coward.

He watched as the light faded from Sniper’s eyes, feeling a shiver run up his spine at the lifeless eyes staring at him, so full of pain, of mortality, a moment ago.

He turned on his heel, before turning back with a silent snarl on his lips. He reached out, and closed the Sniper’s eyes as his body began to dissipate.

Then, he stalked out of the barn, face more impassive than normal, eyes cold and hollow.

But inside, his gut twisted, and his soul, or what he liked to think was a soul, wept for yet another needless loss.

 

 


	3. Time To Think

_Why'd he do it? Why did he save me, even though he must have known I would die anyway? Why was he even hanging around my coop? What did he want to say to me?_

Those were the thoughts that haunted Sniper as the off-duty alarm sounded over the grounds. His trip to Respawn hadn't been a pleasant one. The memory of the solitary bullet being invisibly removed while he was in the Healing sector made him shudder at the ghost feeling. It was always a harrowing experience to visit Respawn after a lot of damage had been done to the body. Because for some reason, they deemed it fitting to heal up any miscellaneous wounds before giving them the anesthetic and transplanting the mind into a new body, or whatever they did.

He scowled into the blood red of the setting sun on the horizon and began his descent to the ground. It always seemed to surprise people that he was so adept at climbing, with a limberness that he gained from the years, the _many_ years, of hunting and tracking alone, forcing himself in wedges of high trees and scaling the sides of mountains simply to survive. He swang easily from rafter to rafter, dropping himself lower and landing on an empty crate with a heavy thud from his combat boots.

As he vaulted himself down, the RED Demoman appeared, looking more sober than the Sniper had ever actually seen the man since they’d first met.

“Aye, Legs.” He called, waving his grenade launcher.

“What’re ya doin’ here?” He replied gruffly, tugging at the lapels of his vest. He felt a small, unfamiliar bundle there, seemingly sewed into the fabric, and frowned, making a mental note to check what it was later in his camper van.

“Och, jus’ goin’ back tae the base.” He stopped in the doorway, regarding the Australian with his single eye.

Sniper became unnerved at that. He was well and truly focusing on him, fixing him in place with a steely gaze that made the Sniper rush him instinctively, tackling him to the dirt. He felt a hazy warmth surround him, and the feeling of static rubbed along his bare arms. The body he was holding onto was no longer the broad Scotsman in red, but a thin, blue-cloth-clad Frenchman, spitting out words in French that Sniper assumed were swear words.

“Why’re you hangin’ around me all the time?” He growled, pinning the Spy down with a thick hand to the throat. Spy’s fingers scrambled at the fingers around his neck, eyeing the marksman angrily.

“Ei wanted to _apologise_ ,” He spat, accent deepening, his eyes rolling to the side as the veins in his neck began to pulse frantically beneath the Sniper’s rough grip. He let go of him abruptly, slamming him back into the dirt with a sound of disgust, and stood.

“Why’d you save me, Spook? Then why’d ya give me a mercy killin’?” He said, stepping back, folding his arms across his chest defensively. He didn’t like the thought of being so near to the enemy Spy, the one who he’d told to kill him, out of _mercy_. Another shudder passed through his frame and he clenched his eyes shut for a moment, only to have them flying open again, travelling to the Spy’s face.

“It was on ze spur of ze moment.” Spy rasped, his voice unusually tense. “And do not expect such a _favour_ again.” His lip curled and eyes narrowed. Sniper felt the undeniable urge to break his nose, mash his face into a bloody pulp, make him regret being such a snooty, uptight French asshole.

So he did.

He flew at the Frenchman, aiming a large fist straight for his pointy upturned nose beneath the mask and let out a satisfied grunt at the crunch and the blood that began to flow out of the mask, staining the dark blue with a dense maroon.

“ _Connard!_ ” Spy screamed, and it _was_ a scream, of pure unrestrained anger. One that was terrifying to see from a man usually so calculated in his feelings and countenance. He grasped the Sniper by his lapels, pulling the stunned man down with ease and nutting him squarely on the soft crown of his head, making the marksman groan and collapse to ground, clutching his throbbing head in the fetal position.

“Ei will fucking _kill you_!” Spy hissed, spitting a globule of blood onto the ground beside Sniper’s head, leaning over him. Neither had their weapons on them, they were disabled once the rounds ended, along with the Respawn technology. But that didn’t stop Spy from placing his index finger over a pressure point in the Sniper’s neck, jerking his head to the side with a hand in his hair, and pressing down with his single finger on his neck. Hard.

The world exploded with white, the only other thing filling his vision was the BLU Spy’s twisted grimace of anger, and as Sniper gasped for air, his vision slowly filling from the bottom up with a blackness so deep he felt his body tremble in genuine fear, he lashed out in a final attempt to get him off. His foot connected with something he couldn’t see, and there was a soft _oof_ that rang in his ears long after he knew it had stopped. He stumbled to his feet, hands pressed to his knees, coughs wracking his already bruised and bloodied body.

“Fuck ya!” He yelled in return, voice gurgling with blood. He slumped against the crate he’d been standing on minutes earlier, breathing uneven and body shuddering. There were faint footsteps and he felt a warm, solitary finger lift his dropped chin.

Steel blue eyes swam before him. He blinked rapidly but that only made it worse. He let out a tiny groan and let the unbearable weight of his head hang itself. The finger wouldn’t let him though, and he squinted at the blurred, blood smeared outline of Spy’s mask.

“Lemme go,” He muttered, drawing a deep breath that rattled his lungs against his ribs.

“ _Non._ ” Spy sounded equally as exhausted as Sniper did. “You will pay for this, Sniper. This is just the beginning of something you can’t even _imagine_.”

As Sniper’s vision dimmed, and the relief of falling unconscious engulfed him, he was almost positive that a gloved hand held his limp one to the Spy’s lips, leaving a searing mark.

~~

Spy glanced around him as he shut the door of the Sniper’s camper van, not that it was necessary with his cloaking device.

The marksman would have a terrible trigger finger tomorrow. Spy smirked to himself, leaving the RED base with barely a dust mote disturbed and lighting a cigarette as he made his way back to BLU base.

It was a mere case of a dam meticulously built to withstand the strongest of rage, the deepest sorrows, the highest moments of happiness, bursting inside of him. All because of that _maudit_ bushman.

 _Merde._ He thought, glaring into the desert darkness separating the two bases. Why had he even bothered dragging the lanky Australian back to his camper van? He didn’t know, and didn’t want to dwell on it further.

He flicked the now dog end of a cigarette onto the sand and ground it out with his heel, gazing about him.

The desert had always been a place that made Spy wary. He’d lived in cities his entire life, and this was his first experience of wide open endless spaces occupied entirely by nothing. Well, almost nothing. The bases were situated there, as was the blank town of Teufort and there was a one-horse town a few miles away.

It was nothing compared to the closed ancient walls of Amiens. He sighed at the thought of his hometown and despite himself, found himself thinking about his father. The pitiful drunkard of a man had probably passed away already, and at the thought Spy let his mouth curl into a feral smile.

That grievance on the world had deserved it after all…

With a simple _snap_ in front of him, he was jolted back to the present. His own team’s Sniper was staring at him curiously. He realised his feet must have carried him all the way back while his mind was lost in thought.

“What?” He snapped at the copy of the RED Sniper, feeling his gut twist in a peculiar way as he observed that every marr on the man's face, every lock of hair, even the half-hidden stare behind black aviators was the exact same as the enemy’s.

But he was still _very_ different to his replica.

His composure was different, Spy concluded. It was possibly because he didn’t spend as much time with his own team’s Sniper but RED Sniper seemed louder in his stoic silence, more self-assured, filling the space around him with a pocket of silence that eased it’s way into people’s heads, made them _want_ to speak to him, to fill that silence.

“Hmph,” The Australian turned away from him, walking back to his own camper van. “Just asked where you’ve been, Spy. Dinner’s been an’ gone.” His head turned, eyes sharply appraising him. “You ain’t lookin’ so well, mate,” He said, his voice carrying a subtle warning that the Spy took note of. “May do ya some good to wash that blood off yer mask.”

Spy sniffed, declining to reply, and stalked away to his own quarters within the BLU base.


	4. Two Times The Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to mention that this is more of a filler, than anything else. It's too short to be considered a chapter, in my opinion. But a chapter it will be.

Spy ducked into one of the many ramshackle buildings the teams used for cover in combat during the rounds. He was avoiding the RED Sniper, who seemed to have figured out after letting off multiple useless shots, sprays that _thunked_ harmlessly into wooden walls and only grazed soft flesh,  that Spy was the one to admit the neurotic to his finger. The poison jammed the nerve signals (harmlessly) for such a long time, that when it was timed to stop, the finger flexed involuntarily. The Sniper had vaulted onto the roof of his current nest, yelling into the air that he would find the Spy and deal him worst death he’d ever encounter.

Spy doubted that. Death by being blown to smithereens was pretty high up on his list of “Deaths To Avoid Due To Messiness and The Ghost Feeling Of Being Torn Apart”.

He cloaked, slipping between the collapsed beams of the house, it _was_ a house, he could see the remnants of a living room through the rotting doorway to his left, as he waited for the gunfire to start back up to mask his retreat.

He went nowhere quickly.

It was mainly due to the lanky arm clasped around his throat, making it more than difficult to breathe.

~~

“Gotcha, ya fuckin’ bastard.” The Sniper snarled, tensing his arm muscles harder as the Spy kicked back against him. There was no way he was letting him slither away this time. He was utterly determined to keep his grip, until he realised Spy’s head was rocketing backwards, towards his nose. He ducked back but his reflexes weren’t timed as well as he’d hoped, and he shoved the BLU Spy away with a choked grunt of surprise as the _crack_ echoed around the empty building and blood began flowing from his nose.

“Payback is a bitch, _oui_?” The Spy’s voice whispered in his ear, he was cloaked again and the Sniper whirled around, flailing at empty air.

He caught something, and yanked hard.

“Uncloak, you coward.” He snarled, sitting atop the invisible mass, the warmth travelling through his body and the static rubbing against his hand as he clutched at whatever he had a hold of. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was.

“Get off me!” Spy’s voice was more muffled than usual, and Sniper realised he had a hold of the spook’s face.

He uncloaked as Sniper moved his hands to his chest, holding him down with his weight.

“I am no _lâche_.” He said viciously, staring hard at the marksman, eyes narrow slits, filled with anger. Sniper shrugged.

“Ya seem pretty fuckin’ cowardly to me, dick’ead.”

The Spy snarled.

“How am I the coward? I kill up close, _personal_. You. You kill from a distance, removed.” He spat on the ground next to his foot. “You do not face those you kill and look them in the eye as you end their life. You are the coward.”

“You stab people in the fuckin’ back!” Sniper fumed. “At least I give ‘em a bloody chance at a reasonably respectable death! Only important people get killed by snipers!”

It occurred to him, very briefly, that in all the skirmishes they’d had, not once had the Spy struggled to get free when he was on top of him.

He discarded the thought immediately though, as what was visible of the Spy’s face was turned an unflattering shade of blotchy red, his mouth twitching.

“Important people…” The fight seemed to be gone from his voice, though his face still portrayed his fury. “What do you call this job, then? Oh, wise Sniper!” He let out a bark of laughter, the flames fading from his eyes. “Get off me,” He said wearily after a moment of silence.

Sniper leaned down, jaw set and nostrils flared, eyes dark behind his aviators. “Make me, Fuckwit.”

~~

Spy let his breath out slowly, staring at the furious man above him, refusing to back down.

“I can not make you do anything, _Mundy_.” He jeered, lips curving into a sardonic smile.

“Fuck you, you can’t!” Sniper hissed, his face still only a few inches from Spy’s mask. “Bollocks!”

“Why,” Spy’s eyebrow raised before he could stop himself. “You _really_ think I can make you do things?!” He began to laugh, genuine, terrible snorts that he hated to death erupting from his mouth. He curled over to the side beneath the weight of the Australian, hands clutching his ribs, ignoring the outraged protests of Sniper.

“Y-You-” A particularly hard snort making the man above him tremble from the heave of his chest. “- _actually believe I can make you do things?!_ ” He fell into another laughing fit, tears forming in his eyes at the thought.

 _Merde._ A small part of himself, the one that had the _Spy_ ingrained in his core was ringing all kinds of alarm bells.

The Sniper had stood up, fists bunched at his sides, shoulders hunched, looming over the laughing Frenchmen. He’d taken his glasses off, actually _taken them off_. And his eyes. They sparked with a flame so bright it made the more humane side of Spy shiver.

“You think the mind games don’t do nothin’, dontcha?” He said quietly. Spy ignored the double negative and merely quirked a brow at the Sniper’s question, wiping the tears away from his eyes carefully with a pristine white handkerchief.

“Get out,” The Sniper had turned away, hands still clenched at his sides, and the Spy felt his brow furrow in confusion - and worry. A feeling he threw into the darkest corner of his mind.

“ _Pourquoi?_ ” He knew the Sniper didn’t speak French, but he got the feeling the marksman knew the gist of what he was saying.

“Just, go away. Go haunt some other poor bugger,” He said over his shoulder, stepping out into the sunshine and stopping, a horribly wet _thunk_ reverberating in the air.

He toppled backwards, and Spy scrambled up, staring in shock at the dead Sniper, an arrow piercing straight through his head. Twice now, he had seen Sniper die up close and personal. It seemed as though it was his fate to witness these deaths, and to feel more than just derision at the lifeless corpse that was beginning to melt into the floorboards. He grabbed at the Sniper’s hand, unaware of what he doing, fuelled by that dam of emotion that had burst, yet again. He stared at the slowly dissolving body with wide, glassy eyes, mouth clenched shut in a thin line, his entire body as tense as a loaded spring.

“Don’t leave.” He whispered.

 


	5. A Feeling So Strange

Spy was on his ninth shot of Heavy’s vodka when the rest of the crew came in, all chattering away cheerfully. RED Sniper’s respawn had taken longer than usual, meaning the BLU team could advance, no longer hindered by the accuracy of the Sniper’s headshots. Spy eyed them moodily, tucking himself away in a dark corner with his bottle and shot glass, lighting his twelfth cigarette in the past hour, sucking in a lungful with a shudder. These cigarettes were supposed to be a time of slow enjoyment, not inhaling mouthfuls of cancerous, unusually abrasive smoke.

“Spy, what iz da matter?” It was Heavy, looking unperturbed about the fact that the Frenchman was clutching his bottle of vodka to his chest protectively as he sat down next to him.

“Nothing is the matter, Misha.” It was so rare that they ever shared each other’s real names with one another, even in the relative privacy of the base that it had almost become taboo, and the Russian man turned to him, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Now I know there iz something definitely wrong,” He said slowly, thick eyebrows furrowing. “What iz it?”

“Nothing.” Spy retorted, turning away from him, taking a swig from the bottle instead of pouring out a shot.

As a shudder passed through his system at the strength of the liquor, Heavy’s hand grasped his shoulder, turning him around with ease. The big man leaned down, gaze stern.

“You will tell me, Spy.” He demanded.

Sometimes, brutal directness was better than hiding behind complicated words and snide remarks.

~~

Sniper ducked into his camper van with a barely repressed snarl on his face.

Everything was going wrong, and his broken nose, kindly reset by the Medic, was stinging.

He flung himself onto the sagging armchair that served as his bed, rubbing his temples, an index figure to each pressure point.

“Parents,” He spat eventually, his gaze travelling around the tiny space that served as his living quarters, glaring at the darkness seeping into through the shaded windows.

He loved them, he really did. But their frustration with his job -- the whole killing thing in general -- was something he could barely handle anymore. It was well-paying, and no one ever really died here anyway. The unknown technology and science that supported their lives made sure of that. Plus he was making good enough money so they could spend the rest of their lives in that shitty ramshackle house, with the stretch of land that was comprised entirely of desert. He felt a twang in his chest at that. He’d grown up there, been raised there, had his first kills there, not all animals either. It was, more or less, home. Or would have been had his father not disowned him the second he’d taken the job, that seemed too good to be true, with the RED company.

He sighed, clasping his hands over his chest after tipping his slouch hat over his eyes. A rest would do him good.

That’s when the nagging in his mind went into blunt-force trauma, making him remember the bundle sewed into the lining of his lapel. His eyes sprang open, tipping the hat back with a flick of his head as he stood, immediately bending and feeling around under the armchair. He pulled out a rusted old iron box and opened it, as ancient as it looked, the contents were pristine. Various needles lined the red velvet attached to the lid, while all sorts of other sewing implements were organised carefully and precisely, each with their own slot and compartment.

He took out a pair of sewing scissors, eyeing the blades for signs of wear or rust, and when satisfied that his precious tool wasn’t wasting away, he slid off his vest, spreading it out with the care of a mother tucking her child into bed.

Then he set to work, snipping away at the extra threads and as he worked, his eyebrows knitted together. The sewing work was done by an expert, it must have been. He’d never met anyone who’d been able to sew this fine.

But he was better.

He managed to pry away all of the extra threads, without damaging the lapel itself and as a little ball of what seemed to be paper fell into his hands, he smiled crookedly to himself at his success, unfolding the note.

As the words came into view, for there were many words, crowding too close together, messily rushed and oozing with a desperation that he never thought he’d see from words, his smile dropped away, and his frown returned.

He stood, flicking the switch of his little red lamp, squinting at the note as the words sprang into focus.

 _Sniper_ , the title read.

_I am sorry. For needlessly trying to save your life. For killing you afterwards._

_Pity kills, as they are called ‘in the business’, are not a pleasant experience._

_At least, in my experience, not for the killer._

_I… May try to compensate for this by, I don’t know, trying to... how would you say this in English... become your ‘mate’ as it were._

_Forgive me._

_There is a wall, I have built. It is a necessary function as a spy to remain unfeeling in most matters. Or to at least keep a cool head._

_But the wall has a crack, that I must heal._

_I need your help to glue it back together._

He threw the letter down as if it were a poisonous spider, feeling shock flood his system. The faint smell of mint smoke clung to his nostrils, an ever present scent, one the usually signalled death, but now...

Sniper let his body sag under the sudden weight in his chest.

“Bugger,” He mumbled, collapsing heavily into the armchair, staring blankly out into the darkness that shrouded the camper van.

~~

They had retired to an area that was more private than the common room, quieter too, without Scout’s grating voice boasting about how he captured the final control point and tipped them over the edge for a win.

“So,” Heavy’s brow was wrinkled in confusion, deep in thought. Despite having the appearance of an undersized giant, he was very intelligent, and a good listener. It probably had something to do with the fact that he was slow, in everything. It gave him time to meticulously sort through all the little cues and signals one portrayed, even if what they were saying meant nothing, he could find some nuance the others had missed and would undoubtedly point it out with scathing accuracy.

Spy had a lot of respect for the man for that. Also partly because the Russian could sit on him and kill him instantly.

“You… Have feelings for the enemy Sniper?” Heavy said solemnly, looking at the Spy over the tops of his ridiculously undersized spectacles. Spy shrugged, nursing the now half-empty vodka bottle. He still wasn’t drunk.

“I don’t know,” He snapped, sizing up his teammate. There was a hell of a lot to size up.

“Hmm,” The sound was a rumble in his chest. “I think is right. Is not surprising. We work close together, da? We kill each other every day, da? Is... Intimate. Is not surprising.”

“I don’t _want_ to feel this way about ‘im,” Spy said miserably, taking another swig of vodka, the alcohol making him cough, the Heavy leaned over to very gently pat him on the back. It made the Frenchman stumble forward regardless, falling to the floor and leaving himself there, curled around the bottle. “I feel all wrong,” He groaned, tugging at the mask, but being careful not to remove it. “All… empty, but full. Of emotions. I’m drowning in them, Misha. I can’t breathe anymore, I can’t focus. I can’t be a good Spy. It all feels wrong!”

“You are being big baby,” The giant of a man commented, arms folded over his chest. “Go to him, tell him all. You will feel better. He maybe not.”

Spy was up in an instant, thin gloved finger in Heavy’s face, his eyes full of fear behind the mask. “I will tell him _nothing_.” He hissed. “You will tell no one. We will continue with this ‘orrible game of cat and cat till our contracts end, and we will never see each other again, and I will _not ever feel this way again_.”

He turned stiffly. “We will never speak of this.” He said over his shoulder, placing the vodka bottle down on a side table before leaving, Italian leather shoes clicking sharply against the concrete floors.

 


	6. Facing Fears

A crush of bodies to get through, each glaring at the boy as he apologised profusely to each person. Two white, shaking hands clutching yellow tape. A charred, black body -- void of life.

A single scream echoing through time.

As Spy jerked awake, the world spun like a spinning top and he realised vaguely that the scream was still going. It was familiar, and as the sound of a pair of combat boots echoed through the hallway he realised that it was him.

He was screaming.

He clenched his mouth shut, raising his hands to eye level, watching with narrowed eyes as they trembled.

The door burst open, and Soldier, of all people, came careening into his room, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

“What?” Spy said hoarsely, silently glad that he'd worn his mask as he slept. The internal pain now materialized, his vision pounding in time with his headache. The Soldier’s gruff voice carrying on didn’t help.

He sprang out of bed, striding to the Soldier’s side before swiftly uppercutting him with the heel of his palm. The click of teeth clashing together sounded in the room and the Soldier glared at him, ignoring the pain in favour of accusing him of the racket.

“What is the meaning of this?” He snapped, eyeing the Frenchman with distaste. He hadn’t put on his helmet, or his pants so it seemed. But that didn’t faze either of them.

“I ‘ad a night terror, Soldier.” He growled in return, fingers itching to strangle the bull-headed man. “All is well,” He continued. Now, LEAVE.” It was a forceful command, one that the Soldier didn’t ignore for once. He scrambled out of the door, glancing over his shoulder as he made his retreat.

After the Soldier had left, Spy closed the door behind him with a quiet click and sank to the floor, back pressed firmly against the cool wood, head in hands, shaking.

He had been too late. Time had ticked onwards in a relentless march. Now, he was a man.

~~

Sniper whirled around as the familiar sound of a Spy uncloaking sounded from behind him.

“Oh, it’s you.” Sniper said slowly, watching as the BLU Spy dusted his hands off.

He picked up the gauntness of his face, the dark rings around his eyes through the slits of the mask, the tiredness in his eyes, the hunch of his usually proud shoulders, the way he stumbled very slightly as he walked towards him.

“What do you want?” Sniper said sharply, turning back around, his neck already feeling hot.

“You read the note.” It was a statement, flat and hollow. Sniper turned his head, gazing at the Spy thoughtfully as he sat down next to him.

“Yeah,” He answered anyway. There was a pause, in which the sounds of brutal battle filtered in through the window, screams and the _ratatat_ of gunfire mingled. And suddenly, Sniper felt old. Too old to be killing and to be killed every day. He let the silence continue, guessing Spy had something on his mind.

“May I tell you a story?” The familiar flick of a lighter, and the mintish smoke drifted towards him again, feeling more like an embrace than an assault. Sniper shrugged.

“There was a city, let it’s name not be known, for the centuries have passed into oblivion and it’s name would bring the darkest of nightmares,” The Spy recited with perfect clarity. “There was a boy, foolish and arrogant but innocent. He believed he would make the secrets of the world known. He was wrong. He only had a father to tie him to the world. He tried his hardest to fulfill his destiny, to make the world a better place. Through secrecy.”

Was it just the tiredness in his voice, or was there a tinge of bitterness to Spy’s words? Sniper wondered at what game he was playing.

“Now, his boss didn’t like his little cat and mouse games, he saw this boy as a threat. A weapon that would turn against him…”

There was a weary sigh.

“He destroyed what he believed would destroy him. The boy; he got a call, a _les avis_ , for old times sake. He ignored it, though. He was innocent, but foolish. And proud. So _damn proud_! ... They killed his father. The only attachment he had to the world. They killed his father, but spared his life. Even when he came to them, begging to end his miserable existence... Then he learnt to build that wall, that dam. To hide all emotion. He loved, though. He loved many people, of all kinds of creed and race. None as much as he had his father. For every person he loved, there was a nightmare waiting for him. His father’s body, taunting him, mocking him. Haunting him. He killed all of those lovers, one by one. He built many supports, and foundations with each kill, each love. That dam was strong. It lasted till he was a man. But deep inside, he still was trapped as a boy. Lost... Confused... _Alone_.”

Spy looked at him, a pained expression in his eyes, inhaling another lungful of smoke. Sniper felt each piece of the puzzle slot together in his mind.  
“But there was one, whom he never expected to love. Who plagued him with death and fury. Who he had fought to the teeth with. He destroyed that dam.” Spy trailed off into silence, probably aware that he’d said too much.

He didn’t need to say it, it slipped between them like a telepathic signal, an unseen two-way connection.

That was when _everything_ slid into place.

“Are ya scared?” He asked suddenly, facing the Spy completely. “Be honest, no more word games or any of that bullshit. No more bleedin’ fist fights either,” His nose still stung. “Are ya scared?” He watched as Spy blew the smoke out in a singular stream, and leaned forward, ignoring the situation, sucking the used smoke into his lungs, keeping eye contact with the Frenchman. It tasted faintly of mint, but clove, of all things, was far stronger. It wasn’t as abrasive as he’d thought it would be.

“‘Cause I am,” He admitted, feeling the weight from his chest drop off in that moment.

“Yes, I am.” It was a whisper, and Spy’s eyes dropped to the dirt.

“‘We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.’” Sniper quoted, blowing the smoke out in a cloud. Spy’s eyes rose, fixing him in place.

“ _You_ know Plato?” The incredulous tone felt normal, and Sniper grinned crookedly. “I do know how to read,” He said defensively, his neck heating up again. “An’ I quite like it. I’ve read quite a bit.”

Spy’s eyebrow was still raised, but as they both heard a crunch of footsteps outside he cloaked instantly. The now empty spot beside him made Sniper’s throat constrict, but he looked up sharply as Engineer peeked his head in.

“Y’all right there, Slim?” The technician drawled, shifting his toolbox from one shoulder to the other. Sniper nodded.  
“Yeah, just needed a break, mate. Gettin’ a bit dizzy.” He murmured, highly aware of the fact that the bent light next to him still cast a shadow, one that was edging it’s way towards the Texan.

“You better get your head in the game, bud. We’re losing down there.” Sniper turned his gaze to the bloodshed below, nodding before standing, sighting down his scope.

He ignored the death scream of his team’s Engineer, setting his rifle down and slumping onto the crates.

“Ya gotta kill me now, Spy.” He said quietly, taking his slouch hat off and running his hair through his hair. “Or it’ll look a tad suspicious if you kill Truckie but you don’t kill me.”

“I can’t,” Was the reply.

“Why not?”

“I’ve seen you die twice, because of me, but not by my hand.” A pause. “I-I don’t know if I can kill you again…”

“C’mon,” He hissed to the air, looking for the invisible man. “Like old times, stick a knife in my back! We’re enemies, remember?”

“We _were_ enemies, Sniper.”

He felt a light breeze on the back of his neck, heard the slight squeak of the Spy’s leather shoes, a wave of smoke surrounded him.

“You’ve got to.” He replied slowly, tipping his head back and staring at the spot he thought the other man would be.

There was the familiar _whoosh_ of the Spy uncloaking, the all too surreal pain of the knife sliding easily between his vertebrae, and the feeling of lips pressed lightly to his as his spinal cord was severed, all feeling dropping away in an instant moment of relief.

~~

Spy grunted as the marksman’s body collapsed onto him, still warm. He lowered it to the ground, feeling his panic rise at his last action.

What had he done?

He’d monumentally fucked up, that’s what he’d done. Fucked _everything_ up. He cloaked instinctively, knowing it was stupid and pointless, but the feeling of silent invisibility was calming to him.

 _Take a breath_ , He told himself. _It will be like the other times. Easy, emotionless, good while it lasts._

But he knew in his gut that he wouldn’t be able to add this kill to his long list of lovers.

He didn’t even know if the man was gay or not.

His stomach clenched unbearably tight at that thought and he turned, running out of the room blindly, feet pounding on the concrete of the checkpoint.

“Medic!” He yelled, feeling the need to feel the soothing ray of the strange healing science BLU Company had authorised filling his body.

There was the sound of running feet behind him, and he turned his head, fearing a sudden death before remembering that he was still cloaked. The RED Engineer stormed past him, his face an unusual shade of white compared to his usually lightly tanned skin. He didn’t seem to see Spy but pushed at the air anyway, Spy readied himself as the technician paused, but felt his heart rise into his throat as the Texan shook his head, clutching his hardhat to his head and sprinting forward.

He followed as the Engineer poured forth a litany of “Medic!s”, his throat growing tighter with each footfall and each yell, fear impatiently plastering itself into the forefront of his mind. When they finally reached the Medic, he was on the brink of an Ubercharge, face twisted into a fierce scowl of concentration as the red electricity began to spark and flow out of the machine strapped to his back. He looked up as Engineer burst into the room, steadying himself against the wall, face red as his shallow breaths filled the silence of the room.

“Vhat is it, Engineer?” He crossed over to him, eyes appraising him with a grim seriousness behind his spectacles.

“R-Respawn!” The Texan gasped, hands frantically fiddling with an off-white, charred, ceramic-looking, small horn. Spy edged closer, gripping the wooden frame of the door so tightly his knuckles turned white at the edge of his vision, but he ignored the stiffness in his fingers, more interested in what the Engineer had to say.

“I-I-It… Aw, hell. I-I think it failed.”

“Vhat happened?” The Doctor’s voice was urgent, quiet. Spy edged even closer, eyeing the thing in Engineer’s hands. It was a charred crocodile tooth.

“I was comin’ out, right? An’ well. I dunno, Doc. I heard a little weird whirring noise and turned back around. Sniper- he was just comin’ in an’ then it got louder and then...Fuck, Doc.” Spy felt his heart sink into stomach at the Engineer’s choked gasp of horror. “I think he’s dead!” Engineer wailed, throwing the tooth down and falling against the German man, hands gripping the Doctor’s jacket, body shaking.

“Quiet,” The Doctor said, glaring around the room. “Ve are not alone, Engineer. Zere is a Spy! Come out.” He demanded.

Spy uncloaked without a second thought, his lip between his teeth subconsciously, glazed eyes flickering wildly from left to right, avoiding the now sobbing form of the technician and the Doctor’s hard stare.

“H-He can’t be dead,” He said hoarsely, his hands clenching the door frame for support, feeling his chin start to tremble. A sure sign that he was on the brink of tears.

“Ve vill see,” The Medic said sternly, seeming to acquiesce his being there for once. He stood the Engineer against the wall, slapping him softly on the cheek a few times. The Texan’s stare was watery, his face seeming to have aged by decades in the few minutes of his sobbing.

“Ve - ” He gestured to the BLU Spy, with a sharp stare to silence his fellow teammate, who had opened his mouth. Undoubtedly to protest the enemy’s proximity. “- vill go to ze Respawn and check. Stay here.” He ordered.

Spy was out of the door before Medic said another word, darting swiftly between the decaying buildings and strategically placed barricades, panic clawing at his insides. He didn’t care about anything other than knowing the fate of the RED Sniper.

He dimly heard Medic’s rubber boots pounding along behind him, beating out a quick rhythm that mimicked how his heart felt in the minutes taken to get to RED’s Respawn.

The fight was still raging around them, and he ducked one of Demoman’s grenades with a grunt.

 _How they can they still be fighting when Mundy’s life is at risk?_ He thought frantically, scrambling through the mess of rubble and skidding into the BLU base. He knew he couldn’t go into the Respawn itself -- strictly against the numerous rules of the battle they fought, and Spy didn’t doubt that there were technological weapons designed specifically so that the enemy couldn’t infiltrate Respawn. So he waited for the Medic to catch up, leaning on the wall, foot tapping impatiently on the concrete, his stomach turning somersaults.

“Wait here,” The Medic snapped as he stormed past him. Spy could see him halt in his tracks as the door slowly closed between them. His head turned, his eyes catching Spy’s with a disheartened look as the metal door shut with a resounding  _thud._


End file.
